


A Jagged History of Amity

by Elywyngirlie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Death, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mizumono and after, Thomas Aquinas, a meditation, a tale told in three parts, life - Freeform, various povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 20:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16048382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/pseuds/Elywyngirlie
Summary: There is nothing on earth more prized than true friendship.Three moments in time, each triggering a reflection of the weight of friendship between Hannibal, Will, and Jack. Betrayal, death, and resurrection.





	A Jagged History of Amity

_ There is nothing on earth more prized than true friendship.  _

 

Thomas Aquinas burbles up unbidden in response to the cloying, faintly rotten fruit smell stuck to Will’s skin. Hannibal sniffs again discreetly; he does not want to rouse Will’s attention. The scent triggers a stroll through the memory palace, rooms shutting with resounding, echoing slams, until he sees her--the inimitable Ms. Lounds. 

 

Her scent, alive, fresh,  _ beating, _ clings to Will’s skin. 

 

The bond between them ripples and twists, hairline fractures blooming, the golden thread growing dull in the light of a hidden sun. All the words crystalize and he realizes with a painful pause in his own heartbeat, that Will has been goading him in a trap. That all the pretty words, all the blandishments, and smiles through his lashes have been his temptation--a last temptation that he allowed himself to feast upon for days. Rotting within him now, corruption spreading with each stuttering of his heart. Veins turning black as the truth is unclothed. 

 

A true fisherman, his Will, he thinks, a brief shudder of pride burning across his shoulders. How incandescent they could have been together, he reflects. The light of this false love refracts and he sees Mason and Margot now. How Will lured Mason to him. 

 

How alike he and Will were. 

 

But how Will had no taste for it. Or, told himself that he didn’t. The distinction didn’t matter now, Hannibal thinks sourly. 

 

He is too used to his person suit to be distracted by this unfortunate revelation and offers Will a small, tight smile, continuing to leaf through his journals. He is sure he handles his end of the conversation as they make a promise for dinner later. Hannibal will serve lamb, he thinks. Something symbolic. Something that allows him to determine what their fractured bond can bear. 

 

Not much, he thinks. Not even the fresh weight of a newborn lamb. 

 

At dinner, he poses the question. Prickles race along his skin, raising the delicate hairs along his arms, and he discovers that his throat is tightening, that his fork tines screech for a brief moment along the delicate china. 

 

“True friendship means understanding and being understood in return,” he whispers, his voice a rustle of dying leaves. 

 

Will tilts his head and for the barest flicker of time, Hannibal is sure that Will hears the undercurrent, the faint plea in his words. 

 

“The quality of an understanding depends on the ability of a person to give themselves away.”

 

“Or to let themselves be truly known.”

 

“To be open, to bare their throats and see what teeth rest there.” Will’s swallow is audible and his hand trembles as he picks up the wine. Hannibal pauses in the space between breaths, waiting for Will to continue. But the younger man merely takes a deep swallow, his lashes resting against cherubic cheeks, marred only by a litter of stubble. 

 

Will does not speak, attention returned to the meal in front of them. And Hannibal seals the rooms that hold his and Will’s conversation, the light of friendship obscured and swallowed. He does not think his heart can break anymore. He does not think that he can bear witness to Will’s betrayal. 

 

But he must. Because the bearing of it will fuel him forward. And that flash of love, of truth between them, will sustain him for years. Whether or not Uncle Jack catches his prey. 

* * *

_ Jack _

 

“There is nothing on earth more prized than true friendship.”

 

Bella’s sister speaks softly now, her features rearranged to withhold the pain, brow quivering. She tells the story of Bella’s kindness, her gentle nature, her blunt honesty, sprinkled with anecdotes that send sprinkles of laughter running along the pews. Jack holds himself still, the pain in his neck replacing Bella as his constant companion. 

 

“But Jack and Bella--their love, their true friendship--was a joy to be a witness to, for many years. And in him, in their love, Bella will live forever.” Bella’s sister looks at him now, her soft smile a mere shadow of Bella’s. He tries to respond but cannot, crystallized in a moment of pain. 

 

He does his duty and thanks each guest. He eats the food, accepts the leftovers as he should. His mother presses a powdery kiss to his cheek; how she outlived his wife is a mystery he suspects will remain unsolved. Bella’s casket stands as a reminder and an accusation. His words fall flat on others and they nod in understanding. 

 

Rudeness can be forgiven in light of crippling grief. 

 

He sits in a pew, the letter from Hannibal leaden in his pocket. He thinks about Bella’s labored breathing, the hope fading in her eyes. Her silence a mantle around his shoulders. He thinks of how tiny and helpless she felt in his arms, all of her life bleeding from her, and how he never asked for her forgiveness. 

 

She once told him forgiveness was the gift of the one harmed; it could not be given by petition. He no longer marvels at life and death, no longer bows his head in supplication to a god. He has seen hell and he has seen heaven and he knows mankind occupies neither place nor captures the attention. 

 

He sits in the silence of the church before he hears a rustle behind him. The smell of plastic cologne hits his nose, the ship on the bottle both familiar and grating. He waits for Will to speak but the younger man says nothing. He reflects on the conversation on his last conversation with Will at his home. 

 

He thinks about their last conversation, snow seeping through his boots to coat his socks.Jack had gone through his life, assuming he and Will were something more than colleagues, something akin to friend. He had envisioned something growing between them, a bond that united them, determined to find and mete out justice. To stop darkness from spreading, to save lives. No matter what it took.

 

Turns out, Will was interested in a few lives, not the nameless public Jack sought to protect. 

 

He lets the difference sit in his mouth as he studies Bella’s casket. He thinks of his sister in law’s words, of the comfort in his mother’s dry kiss, in the congenitally of the mourners’ hugs and gentle touches. 

 

He decides it doesn’t matter. Friendship, like forgiveness, must be given with God like grace. And he will let the world devour him before he gives up on Will Graham again. Before he lets Bella’s last breaths, gifted to him, lose their meaning. 

 

He opens his mouth and begins to talk. 

* * *

_ Will _

 

There is nothing on earth more prized than true friendship.

 

Hannibal’s copperplate handwriting swims in front of his eyes and Will bats at his forehead. The cold snap currently invading the surrounding area renders his house almost frigid and ceramic heaters around the house combat the arctic air. Consequently, Will alternates between layers, his constant companions both his dogs and a thin baseline of sweat. 

 

Unless they are tears. 

 

But Will can not acknowledge the secrets lurking behind that sentiment. In the firm, unyielding embrace of the man who flits about his mind in dreams. Abigail stretches her legs out and smiles at Winston, unconcerned by her affection. He watches Will sort through his books, determining what goes into storage and what should stay. 

 

His home is no longer a ship at sea, a harbor of safety.  He isn’t sure how long he could stay confined in these walls, breath clouding in front of him as he works through tangible memories and echoes of his life. 

 

“Why do you cling to that idea of friendship? Why do you think his matters?” Abigail’s innocent question drives home what Will has contemplated for months now. His hand trails across his stomach as he reaches for the whiskey. 

 

(I’d advise you not to, the shadows whisper. It will not assist you in a full return to health). 

 

Will cannot hold back his snort as he pours himself one finger, then two, then three. The pleasant, familiar burn cuts through the miasma sticking to him like burrs. He cannot shake it off. It vexes him, it hounds him, it sends him down a tunnel of doubt that he cannot escape. 

 

The stream has lost its appeal and he sighs loudly. 

 

“You did not answer my question.” Abigail repeats, lip jutting out in an impish sulk. 

 

Will remains silent, watching the light refract off the amber liquid in his tumbler. 

 

“We gave of ourselves freely. We let ourselves be free with one another in a way neither of us really expected.” Abigail eyes him. 

 

“You watched him murder Mason Verger.”

 

“He would have allowed me to murder him.”

 

“He trusted you not to.”

 

“He trusted me to be myself. To cling to whatever ideas of justice that I have.”

 

“And yet he gut you open when you betrayed him.”

 

Will gives her the clearest, most frank look he’s given another person in the longest time. Since lamb at Hannibal’s table. Little did he recognize the test in Hannibal’s words that night. 

 

(You did. You just chose to interpret them in a way that gave you what you wanted the most, the shadow murmurs.) 

 

He thinks about that night often, especially as pain crabs its way up his spine, leeching his strength, sweat dribbling onto his sheets as fire spreads through his abdomen. He wanted something. From both Jack and Hannibal.

 

A recognition. 

 

Of whatever he was becoming. A man on his own standing free of influence. 

 

In the end, obligations tied him down, forced his hand, despite his traitorous hands dialing Hannibal’s number by rote. 

 

Bonds that Hannibal severed with that linoleum knife. 

 

“He gave me a gift.” 

 

“Of death?”

 

“No, of life.” Will turns his attentions back to the bookshelf. The Aquinas is heavy is hand with Aquinas’s piety and Hannibal’s dedication. 

 

True friendship meant opening doors, some pried open to shine a light in dark places. Hannibal’s memory palace was vast, medieval, and clothed in darkness. He shoved Will into his cocoon to see what would emerge. 

 

And as Will’s gaze snagged on the covered boat outside, as his lips curved upward in a sneer that mirrored the scar decorating his stomach, he thought about the light he would shine in Hannibal’s world. 


End file.
